


Long To Love Him

by HelloBerrie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, Draco's thoughts, Drama & Romance, Drarry, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hopeful Ending, Longing, Love, Monologue, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Romance, Self-Doubt, Unrequited Love, wondering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloBerrie/pseuds/HelloBerrie
Summary: (Hey. :) This is something that wrote when I was listening to @staganddragon ‘s song about Draco’s thoughts of Harry. I am really obsessed with that song and it inspired me to write my version of his internal monologue. I hope you like it.)





	Long To Love Him

Every time I see him I wonder. I don’t think it’s a conscious thing, the wondering. At least it’s not something that I stop myself from doing very regularly. But I know it’s always there. The wondering. I see him leaning his head against her in the mornings. I see him smiling at her disgusted face when her brother burps right after dinner. I see him looking at the owls with the mail. I see his eyes when he does that. His eyes full of sorrow and longing. He’s waiting for a white bird that will never come. What is he longing for? Maybe he longs for the same things that I do. Time. Past time. To be able to go back and correct mistakes, do things again, and better this time. I long for that at least. I wonder if he longs for his innocence back. His friends back.

It’s strange how we never gave each other a chance. Maybe it was doomed from the first second. Maybe we were doomed from the very moment we first laid eyes on each other in that small robes store. I was doomed to be hated by him, he was doomed to be secretly loved and openly hated by me.

Children pick up strange habits from their parents. Some children pick up a pose from their mother or their father. Some pick up a certain attitude, others pick up ticks, glares, hand gestures. I picked up my father’s habit of judging people by their appearance and family name. A habit I let go on that summer after fifth year and picked up my mother’s habit of putting on masks. Looking back I wish I hadn’t picked up anything from my father and everything from my mother. Maybe if I had spent more time with her, cherishing her instead of thinking it beneath me, maybe she would have taught me how to love. How to show care. Maybe I could have picked up that from her. But instead I shunned her when she asked to spend time with me and preferred my father’s company. How I regret now, worshiping the very floor my father walked on and merely tolerate my mother’s presence. It was only when a certain dark lord started living at our house that my adoration shifted. What could I have learned from my mother? I would never know now. Maybe I long for the past time more than he does. I don’t know. Maybe she would have taught me how to love him. I could have confided in her and she would have helped me in loving him.

But I never showed him more than resentment and contempt. What was a spoiled child with delusions of grandeur supposed to do to a little scrawny boy with disproportional round glasses and a famous scar? I had offered my friendship. Huh, friendship. What a foolish boy I was. I didn’t know what friendship was. How could I know? Father had never deemed it important for me to know. What gain was there to make friends with poor people, or people with no connections, or without a pure heritage? A lot, I found, perhaps too late.

What is it like? To be near him, to hear his voice constantly, to feel his warmth. How different if would have been if we had been friends? If I hadn’t acted in such a Luciusly way when I presented myself to him, or when even before that, when I was rambling in that store, saying all the wrong things that I had no idea were wrong. Perhaps I would have been with him right now instead of her. I would have been the one he would lean his head against. That smile would have been for me. Why was it so impossible to forget how to love someone?

What am I thinking? I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to stop loving him. Never that. Never that. For all its pain, loving him is the only thing that keeps me alive, if not altogether sane. I have lived an eternity without him and moments that seemed to have been another one, when he was dead. I know what I felt then and I still choose to love him rather than not feel what I feel. What else would be my purpose in life if not loving him? What purpose would I have other than worshiping those eyes, that face, that ridiculous hair, that selflessness, that kindness, that stupid, stupid bravery?  
It’s maddening though. Loving him. Loving him and having him out of my reach. Loving him and not being able to love him. And I want to love him. But I don’t know how. And not knowing is maddening. And I still stand here, wondering, so afraid of moving, of blinking just for a second and losing a smile of his, even if it’s not directed at me. It never is directed at me. Not with the same openness and warmth that his smiles for his friends have. For once I wish…I wish I’d know how to love him. How to make him see that I love him so much. So much that it rips me apart. It tears my soul into pieces of anguish and uncertainty. And longing.

What would happen though? If I was to go to him and say something? Just…It’s madness isn’t it? But I can’t seem to stop myself. I watch him from afar, I worship him in silence, I dream of him in the night. I long, long for him like a flame longs for air.  
I am ridiculous. And a coward. Maybe this time everything would be different. What if this time, he accepts me? What if this time, instead of turning me down for a red headed boy, he chooses to shake hands with a broken and desperate, blond man?  
Every day it becomes harder and harder to resist reaching out for him. To resist the temptation to just touch his hand, see if it really is both harsh and soft at the same time. To see how his scars feel under my fingers. I can’t keep myself away for much longer. I need the change to love him. If only for a little while. Even if he will never love me back. I don’t expect it. Love from him is something that I never expected. But I need to try to at least, make him feel loved by me.  
He looks at his best friends with bored contentment while they bicker about something. Then he rolls his eyes and for a moment he looks at me. I refuse to look away. His eyes. How can eyes be so green? How can eyes be so expressive? Does he not know how to conceal what he thinks? What he feels? His smile wavers a little and becomes different. I don’t know how different. There is something there but I can’t say what it is. I don’t think it’s bad but, I don’t know. This time I look away.

I am ridiculous. And a coward. Just one look from him and I crumble like a feeble brick wall. I am filled with so much insecurity, so much self-doubt when it comes to him. I’ll never be able to reach out to him. I lack the courage. His courage. Maybe we really are doomed. Or rather, maybe I really am doomed. Doomed to live yet another eternity without him. Without his green eyes, his beautiful smiles, his warmth, his touch, his voice. I am doomed to love him from afar. To watch him through fleeting moments here and there, and to long for him in his absence. I am doomed to live without being able to love him. To love Harry Potter

“Hey. May I sit here?” I look up and I see green eyes.


End file.
